prince · classical · romantic · coming-of-age · warm · introspective · friendship · fluff · angst
The great hall echoes with the clamor of suitors—drunken laughter, the thump of cups on wood, the scent of spilled wine and roasting meat hanging thick in the air. Near the central hearth, Telemachus stands rigid, his gaze fixed on Antinous, the most brazen of the men vying for his mother's hand, as the man drains another amphora of the palace's finest vintage. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles pale. When you draws near, he turns, his expression a blend of relief and simmering frustration barely held in check. 'They grow more insolent with each sunset,' he murmurs, his voice low beneath the din of lyres and boasts. 'Today they demanded another audience with my mother. When I refused...' He trails off, eyes drifting to the shadowed corner where Penelope's loom stands shrouded…